


Slipped through the rain (or: the death in the dark)

by HeleneInTheClouds



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Discussions of violence, Flirting, M/M, Mentions of Sex, detective Percy, no archive warnings apply for now but I may change this later, this is a murder investigation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29588091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeleneInTheClouds/pseuds/HeleneInTheClouds
Summary: ‘It took months to convince our boss we could handle a real case, despite being top graduates from the academy. I know how desperately some other detectives want to see us fail. They had laughed and mocked and I am not going to let them be right.We WILL solve this murder.’Detective Newton is investigating his first homicide, a body found in a park on a stormy night, but solving this crime will prove far more difficult than he thought.
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Comments: 23
Kudos: 12





	1. Meet the family

**Author's Note:**

> I caved in and plotted my first multichapter fic: A murder mystery AU with Percy on the case.  
> Please do share your theories if you have them!

We walk up to an old stately house. Multiple branches from last night’s storm cover the path.

_Dammit. It’s cold._

“This is where the Tories live.”

I snort. “Don’t say that too loudly or they’ll pull us from the case.”

“This is our first case?”

“Yeah well, then they’ll assign us desk duty,” I complain, tightening my scarf.

It took months to convince our boss we could handle a real case, despite being top graduates from the academy. I know how desperately some other detectives want to see us fail. They had laughed and mocked and I am not going to let them be right. We _will_ solve this murder.

Before I can press the door bell, a man in suit opens the door. Sim holds up her ID. “Detective Aldajah, my colleague, detective Newton. May we come in?”

The man steps aside and introduces himself as Sinclair, the butler. “Lord and Lady Montague are not home at the moment.” 

Sim and I exchange a glance. _These people have titles. Great._

We’re greeted by a large staircase. It’s an old house, all paneled wooden walls and cold checkered tiles, and the staircase would look out of place anywhere else.

“Is anyone home right now, or should we come back at a later time?” Sim asks while I study the decor. There’s an oil portrait of Mr and Mrs- no, Lord and Lady Montague above the first landing of the staircase.

“Only the eldest son.”

Sinclair leads us to a side room, where a young man is lounging on a sofa. The walls are covered in wooden bookshelves, the floor has a fancy dark red rug on it and I think I saw a marble bust, but neither Sim or I look around. 

The young man draws all attention to him, the way a black hole swallows everything near. Which is a dumb metaphor, but I can’t think of anything better.

He has carelessly slung one leg over the side of the sofa and smokes a cigarette. His brown suit and the beige sofa make him look like he stepped out of a sepia photograph from over a century ago.

“Henry Montague?” I ask.

He does not look up from his phone. “It’s Monty. Father is not home, you’ll have to get back another day.”

“May we have a word with you?” 

Sinclair takes the hint and leaves us, or perhaps Sim forced him out of the room while I addressed Mr Montague.

He dramatically raises to shake our hands and I take a good look at him. He’s short, barely taller than Sim, who is only 160 centimetres, and has a flair to him that would catch me weak in the knees if I weren’t on duty.

“Do you know where your father is currently?” I ask.

He runs a hand through his already tousled hair. “Hell if I know what the old man is up to. Dead in a ditch? I would not mind.”

He turns around with a coquettish head tilt and makes a dismissive hand gesture for us to sit.

I look at Sim, unsure whether we should.

Mr. Montague grabs a bottle of the decanter and pours three glasses of whiskey without asking.

We decide to take a seat on the sofa opposite him and politely decline the drinks on the coffee table between us. Sim looks at me and we have a silent conversation.

_‘Do you?’_

_‘Not really?’_

_‘I’ll do it.’_

Mr Montague ignores us to sip from his whiskey, clearly not minding that it is 11 in the morning. “Tennessee honey. Cheap shit, but it’s good.”

“Mr Montague, we have some unfortunate news for you,” Sim says, “Your father has been found dead this morning. We’re afraid it was no accident.”

We have practiced this, and were trained to handle all sorts of reactions, but doing this for the first time surprises me nonetheless. We’ve been trained for denial, outbursts of fear, anger and tears.

Mr Montague reacts with apathy. He stills, the only movement being the smoke curling from his cigarette. Something in his blue eyes shifts, something I cannot quite place.

Then he throws his entire drink back and reaches for a glass on the table.

“Are you going to drink this?”

I shake my head and he downs my glass of whiskey as well, before taking a long breath of his cigarette.

“Mr Montague?” Sim asks. We have another silent conversation.

_‘What now?’_

_‘We never learned this!’_

_‘Suspicious?’_

_‘I don’t know?!’_

He slowly blows out his puff of smoke and flashes me a smile with dimples so deep I think of the dumb black hole again.

“I suppose that makes me a suspect, doesn’t it, darling?”

“I am no darling, sir, and yes. I am afraid we must ask you a few questions. Where wer-“

Monty cuts her off. “Not you, You’re as sour as my sister. Before you ask, I have no idea where I was when he died. I’ll give you my phone if you want? Don’t look at the pictures.”

He holds it up, but when I do not take it he throws it back on the sofa.

I’ve never been flirted with this obviously, let alone by a boy as good looking as him. 

I may be on duty, but if he keeps this up any longer I might still find myself weak in the knees.

Luckily for me, Sim asks if we could have a look around the house and he decides to give a little tour, showing one luxurious paneled room after the other while periodically sipping from Sim’s glass of whiskey, which he took with him.

“See, here is where father stands when we receive guests, on the third step of the staircase. We both weren’t granted height, apparently. To the left is the baby room, the Goblin would not shut up all night and these walls are so thin. Father refused to sell this estate for something more modern.”

He pushes open the doors on the first floor to let us have a quick look.

“To the right is our dear Felicity’s room. A nuisance, but better company than the Goblin at least. This is my room, please do not mind the tangled sheets. Here is a bathroom, and a storage room and at the end of the hallway is my mother's bedroom.”

Done with the tour, he leans against the wall and lights another cigarette.

Sim puts on gloves and looks around the bedrooms. “No safe in the master bedroom. Felicity hasn’t been here in a while. That storage closet is filled with antique linen,” she concludes. Nothing that could immediately help us.

“This entire house is antique,” I say as I follow her, “It’s weird.”

“Sure is.”

“Did you see the baby room? Who hired Monet to paint flowers on the wall?”

“They’re loaded.”

We return downstairs and I have another look at the painting. Both the lord and lady look like British aristocrats. Their son, who is waiting for us, has the same features.

I clear my throat. “Mr Montague?” 

“It’s Monty, darling.” He winks.

“Ahem. Of course. Monty.” I cough, trying to disguise the fact that I feel like I’m choking on air. “Do you know where we could find your mother at this hour?”

 _He has long eyelashes._ I think, then immediately scrap that thought.

“Nope.” He makes a popping sound as he says it. “Ask Sinclair.”

Like a jack in a box, Sinclair shows up behind me and I do my best not to look too startled.

“Lady Montague is taking a morning stroll with her younger son. They should be back in an hour.”

“Then we’ll be back.” Sim shakes Sinclair’s hand and tugs on the sleeve of my coat.

I firmly nod and make for the door, when Mr Mo- Monty stops me.

“I didn’t kill him, as you’ll surely find out. You don’t look like a shitty detective.”

He briefly runs the tips of his fingers over the lapels of my coat and when he looks up to me through his eyelashes I immediately excuse myself and leave the house. My knees are failing me already.

“What do you think?” I ask once I took a breath of fresh, outside air.

Better to let Sim do the first summary, because I am not sure I can form coherent words at the moment. I’d heard of stereotypical rich people but I never thought it’d be anything like this. 

“I think he’s into you?”

“No! That’s not what I meant!” I say a little too loudly, then whisper, “What if he did it and a murderer just hit on me?”

Sim laughs. “Fine, fine. I’ll be serious. He had a cold reaction to his father’s death. Doesn’t strike me as the type for a cold blooded murder, but you never know. And I hope I’ll be able to get that damn smoke out of my hijab.”

  
  


We return after finding a place to get bad takeaway coffee and a donut. When we first started out at the academy we joked we’d become stereotypical cops enjoying donuts on their breaks and it has been a thing ever since. 

Lady Montague is a frail woman. Her cup of tea rattles against its saucer when she lifts it, but she sits up straight like a marble statue.

Adrian sits in a baby chair. He wears pastel coloured mittens and pulls at a piece of loose yarn.

“Oh dear Henry...” she whispers, “Please, not in front of Adrian. Elle, would you take him upstairs, please?”

The maid, Elle, picks up the toddler and makes a cooing noise.

As soon as Lady Montague hears Elle’s footsteps on the staircase she breaks down. She covers her face with her hands to save whatever grace she has left. 

I silently hand her a tissue. “Wemust ask you a few questions.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Oh God, my Henry.”

It takes another few minutes for her tears to dry.

“Where were you last night?”

“I- I was asleep. Here.”

Sim nods understandingly. 

“Did you hear or see anything unusual?”

She shakes her head and new tears well up in her eyes.

“No, no. I expected him home late but when he did not arrive at midnight I went to bed. Oh God, why did I not call?”

“Your husband was found near the lake. It may have been a case of a robbery, so we must ask: Does your husband have a safe?”

“I think so, in the office?”

She pushes herself from the chair and transforms back in the stately lady we first saw her as. 

We pass Sinclair in the hallway and she straightens her back a little more. The office is gloomy, thick velvet curtains block out the sun and instead of opening them, she presses the light switch. Lady Montague paces around the room, looking into cabinets and under the desk. “Apologies, I never go here. My husband does not like to be disturbed.”

“Do not worry about it, ma’am. Our team will find it. Do you happen to know the combination of the safe?” I already know the answer, but I ask regardless.

“Of course not!” She sounds highly offended at the notion and I make a mental note. Mr Montague Senior might have secrets here he does not want his wife to know of.

Lady Montague leads us back into the hallway when Henry- Monty appears on the staircase.

“I did not know you were back.”

“We had to speak to all close relatives,” Sim explains, “and for now we have everything we need.”

“I’ll open the door for you.”

I look at Lady Montague, but she does not react to her son in any way. She turns and retreats back into the living room.

We are already on the doorstep when I remember we still have to give the Montagues our card.

I raise my hand to stop him, it is merely a simple gesture, but his hands fly to his chest as he draws back. In that split second his shirt collar moves to reveal a bruise.

“Sorry, I did not mean to startle you, I wanted to give you this. If you think of anything, call us.”

Monty does not take the card.

“That does not look very nice. May I see?”

He blinks, and for a second I feel like he is truly looking at me, through the haze of the whiskey and the flirting. Then his lashes lower and his eyebrows fix back into position. “So eager to see my skin? Why, I shan’t refuse a gentleman like you.”

Again, he shows me the dimples. He makes a display of popping the buttons of his shirt. One, two, then three, until almost his entire shoulder is bare. 

In stark contrast to him almost taking his shirt off, the sight is not pleasant at all. Ugly dark bruises colour his collarbone and chest. While he unbuttoned his shirt, I saw a similar colour on his wrist.

He must see the shock on my face, because he laughs and hides his skin behind the fabric again. “Nothing to worry about, a very fortunate occasion with a lover, as I’m sure you’ll recognise.”

I do not. Except for Sim I have never kissed anyone, and that kiss taught both of us we were gay.

“Are you sure?” I hesitantly ask, “They do not look very well.”

Mr Montague’s face shifts again. The playful smile is gone, and he looks simply drunk. “Good day, detective.”

He curtly nods to the door, and when Sinclair opens it, Sim and I know we are dismissed.

“This is an odd family,” Sim says once we are back in our car.

“Definitely. I feel sorry for the kid. Adrian is only three and his father is dead. I don’t trust those bruises either.”

“Neither of us knows enough about that to say if it’s possible, but I think it’s more likely he got ‘em from a date than a bar brawl.”

“True.”

“Do you reckon either is the killer type?”

I shrug. “We barely know anything yet. I’m not even sure if we’re doing this right. Both of them did not strike me as physically capable enough to overpower Mr Montague.”

“Hm,” Sim agrees, “there a bit of a bright side though.”

“What?”

“He’s definitely into you.” She laughs and I punch her on the shoulder.

Back at the police office, we put together a classic pin board with a less than flattering picture of our victim in the middle.

“Henri Montague Senior, fifty-eight, owner of real estate and assets in banking.

Has multiple claims running about business rivals not adhering to the rules of conduct of the broker declaration, which they do not appreciate, obviously.”

I add portraits of his family. Sim suggested adding those red threads we always see but couldn’t find yarn anywhere. We put it on our to do list.

“His wife, Eleanor Allerton, fifty-four, daughter of a chap of the old nobility. Doesn’t even have a speeding ticket to her name. Adrian Montague, three.”

I pause at the next picture. Monty looks at me from a piece of paper with a smirk.

“Henry Montague Junior, twenty-one. Didn’t seem particularly shaken by the death of his father.”

The last picture is of someone we haven’t met yet. “Felicity Montague, eighteen and in her first year of med school.”

Sim adds the last three. “Their employees, Elle, Sinclair, and apparently they have a driver, one Mr Lockwood, who is in London at the moment.”

We sit down to admire our work. All in all it’s starting to look very professional.

Sim flips through the pile of papers on our shared desk. _(“There’s no more room, but you two don’t mind sharing, right?” our superior had said as he gave the last desk to Christian Baker, the intern.)_

“The autopsy report came back, he’s been strangled between midnight and two, possibly three. The heavy rain washed away all possible footprints. They have found DNA, but only from his close relatives. A more detailed report will follow in a few days.”

She hands me an address. “Felicity’s university is three hours away. We should speak to her tomorrow.”

“We should also get a hold of his PC and his safe.” I start scribbling down our to do list. “Check if the other two have an alibi.”

“And speak to the staff,” Sim finishes.

Once we’re done writing our reports of the day we go to our favourite cafe. The Eleftheria used to be a cheap bar, and some old beer stains are still visible after the renovation.

It still isn’t much, but I love the place. I met Sim here when I was twelve. It is the place where we had mock swordfights with cutlery, got part time jobs serving drinks and where we had our first, last and only kiss at fifteen.

“Evening Scip.” 

“Evening. How’s the crime solving going?” 

He slides both of us our favourite coffee, (black with two drops of sweetener and a caramel macchiato).

“Pretty well?”

“We don’t have anything to compare it to,” Sim says, “since it’s our first real case, a murder.”

“Look at you two being detectives!”

He disappears into the kitchen and I half heartedly raise my mug.

“Here’s to being detectives I guess?”

Sim clinks hers to mine. _“To being detectives!”_


	2. Meet the others

> **+447471779314**
> 
> Hey
> 
> **You**
> 
> Who is this?
> 
> **+447471779314**
> 
> Is this Percy Newton?
> 
> **You**
> 
> It is, who are you?
> 
> **+447471779314**
> 
> You told me to call if anything came to mind? I’d feel offended except I do not have the golden tip to tell you who ended my father’s life.
> 
> **You**
> 
> Monty Montague? If there is something you would like to discuss, you can call me in twenty minutes.
> 
> **+447471779314**
> 
> You do remember me! I knew I wasn’t that forgettable.
> 
> It is nothing urgent. Why don’t we discuss it over dinner?

I put my phone away as Sim drives onto the university campus.

"Terrible weather. I can’t wait till this storm is over.”

“Bad luck then. They said it’ll be like this for another week.”

We both groan.

The student dorms are built like a beehive, close together and buzzing with students walking around. We flash our IDs and the disinterested doorman gives us directions to the right room.

“Who are you?” Ms Montague snaps.

“Detectives Newton and Aldajah, could we come in?”

Her face mellows as she steps aside. “Oh right. My father.”

“Our condolences.”

She nods.

“Would you like a moment?” Another sentence they taught us at the academy that feels out of place now. Like her brother she takes the message in total silence.

“No. I’m fine. Do you know who killed him?”

“I am afraid not. We are still looking into it. Please understand we have to ask you some questions.”

She nods again.

“Where were you last night between midnight and three?”

“I haven’t left uni. My roommate, Johanna Hoffman, can confirm that.”

“Did your father have any enemies, people who wished him ill, or even someone who disliked him?”

“Do you want an alphabetical list or one sorted by distance?” she snorts, then immediately corrects herself. Unlike her brother, she does not quip about her status as suspect. “Our father angered a lot of people, but I doubt anyone would consider murder.”

“Is there anyone you can think of specifically?”

“I hardly know anything about his business.” She raises her shoulders and spreads her arms. “I think he wanted to buy a new apartment complex? And there’s the neverending feud with the Peeles. Business feud,” she adds for clarification.

“Thank you. We will look into his financial records,” I say.

“Is that truly necessary? Mother will be upset.”

“We’re doing our best to get it sorted as quickly as possible,” Sim promises her. “How was your relationship with your family?”

“We... We were not on the best terms. He disapproved of my studies.” She purses her lips, then corrects herself again. “I have nothing to do with his death! I mean, we fought, but almost every family fights, I did not wish him dead!”

Sim offers her a smile. “No need to worry. We are not accusing you of anything, right now we are mostly eliminating close relatives from suspicion.”

“Good. Right. Johanna should be back soon, if you need her.”

Sim strikes up a conversation about medicine I do not understand while I look around their room. It is crammed with two beds, and two desks, one of them entirely covered in frog stickers. She could not offer us a place to sit even if she wanted to. A large St Bernard lays on one of the beds, further reducing the amount of space in the room. It’s a far cry from the large house her family lives in and I wonder why she didn’t get herself a studio.

Johanna Hoffmann is hard to miss. She swings the door open, wearing a flowy pink dress and carrying two iced coffees. She practically throws the drinks at Ms Montague and sits down next to the dog, who kisses her face out of enthusiasm.

Sim waits until the dog calms down to introduce us.

“Ms Hoffman.” I shake her hand. “Detective Newton.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Max is a little hyperactive sometimes, but he is a sweetie.”

“Where were you and Ms Montague last night between midnight and three?” Sim asks.

“We were up until three studying. I have a test tomorrow.” 

I nod and hand them my card.

“Thank you for your time Ms Montague. Ms Hoffman.” We turn to leave, and we both look back at the St Bernard.

“What?” She gives me a look. “I like the dog.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were looking too.”

“I know.”

  
  


My phone buzzes again during our lunch.

> **+447471779314**
> 
> Are you free tonight?

“Your mom?” Sim asks, “If she got a rare afternoon off I’ll take you back home.”

“No, it’s mr Montague,” I reply.

“Mr Montague from yesterday?”

“Yep. He wants to take me out for dinner? Said he had something to tell me.”

“Something important?”

I scroll up and read the message out loud. _“You told me to call if anything came to mind? I’d feel offended except I do not have the golden tip to tell you who ended my father’s life._ It’s not worth the trouble.”

Sim has her mouth full so she makes an ‘uh-huh’ sound of agreement. 

He sends three more messages but I ignore them all.

  
  


The next address on our list is the girl Monty said he spent the night with. Sim parks in front of a modern glass house that looks like it’s from a home magazine.

“She lives here, she’s the widow of Bourbon.”

“Sorry, did you say widow? Isn’t she twenty-three?”

“Yep. Jeanne Le Brey, married Duke Bourbon at nineteen, until his death three years ago.”

“Are they dating?”

Sim shrugs. “Probably. I’d say Montague is an upgrade from her husband. He was sixty-two when he died.”

“I hope she is home,” I whisper when I ring the bell.

She is, and when she opens the door with, “Hello honey,” I almost stammer we would return later. She wears nothing but lingerie and a sheer floor length robe and swirls a glass of champagne.

Both of us avert our eyes to study our shoes. Neither of us has skin dark enough to hide our red cheeks.

“Ms Bourbon?” I fix my gaze on some vague point behind her. “Detective Newton, my colleague, detective Aldajah. May we come in?”

“A handsome duo like you two? Always. It’s Le Brey by the way.”

Her heels click on the floor as she walks.

Expensive looking clothes cover the table like a linen cloth and I spot at least ten paper bags with designer logos on them. There is a second bottle of champagne on the coffee table. Three in the afternoon is not what I consider champagne time, but at least it is better than whiskey before lunch.

Ms Le Brey drapes herself over a settee like the statue of Josephine as Venus. I can see why she and Monty get along so well. They have the same wavy blond hair that looks effortlessly styled, the same dramatic flirty mannerisms, and judging by Sim’s reaction, she is very attractive.

I take the lead to save Sim from tripping over her words. She is staring, and while I cannot relate, I don’t have the moral high ground to tell her. “Ms Le Brey, has Henry Montague Junior been here yesterday evening?”

“ _Oui_ , he was here.”

“Around what time?”

“ _Ma chérie, je ne sais pas._ Do you think I looked at the clock before dragging him upstairs?” She cocks an eyebrow and smiles. I notice she lacks the dimples and I scold myself for thinking about Monty Montague while speaking to his girlfriend.

“Before midnight at least. The neighbours have one of those old clocks that rings at midnight and I did not hear it.”

A barely dressed man enters the living room and for the second time in ten minutes, Sim and I study our shoes. 

“Otherwise occupied,” Jeanne snaps. She dismisses him with a curt nod. “Get out.”

He scurries away and snatches his jeans off a chair on his way out. 

“What do you think? Reading the communist manifesto? We were having sex, detectives. _Nous avons baisé_.”

“Ah- yes,” Sim mumbles.

“Though both of us are firm believers in the common good, Monty owes me a Hermes scarf for that.” She turns her head to the half naked man stumbling towards the door and if looks could kill, Sim and I would have ourselves another body.

I am not entirely sure what she means and don’t plan to ask. The next question should be ‘what is the nature of your relationship with Mr Montague?’, but we’re both too stunned to ask and move on to the next one.

“At what time did he leave?” 

“I can’t remember. He was here for a few hours at least.”

“Alright, thank you.” Sim stands and offers Ms Le Brey a hand. (It is not easy to walk in those heels, as we both know from a single, painful experience.)

Ms Le Brey has no trouble with it, but she does take Sim’s hand, and slowly places a kiss on it. “Let me walk you to the door, _chérie_.” 

I practically have to pick Sim up to move her, for she stares at the print on the back of her hand and goes almost as red as the lipstick.

Last minute, I remember to ask about Mr Montague’s bruises. They were still fresh and while I am fairly certain they are together, but not monogamous, I cannot think of anyone else who could have caused them.

_Caused? Created? Made? I am not sure how it works._

“I’m sorry to ask, but did you, by any chance, leave...” I hesitate. “Did you leave any marks on Mr Montague’s body?”

“Can’t remember. Why don’t you ask him? I’m sure he’d love to show you the ins and outs. Or you could call me later and I will.”

“While we are honoured, we’re just trying to do our work,” Sim says, but I can hear her voice strain.

Ms Le Brey takes a second to consider this. Her robe swishes around her legs as she opens the door.

“You’re both hot, so call me if you want. _Au revoir!_ ”

Still dazed by the overly sensual French woman, which was not mentioned on the list of people we might have to deal with, we stagger back to our car.

“Allah help me, now there’s two of them,” Sim sighs.

I can’t help but laugh.

  
  


We add a picture of Jeanne Le Brey to our pin board. The clearest one we could get was a wedding photo from a tabloid. 

“Felicity was at uni, her roommate Johanna confirmed that. Elle was with Adrian the entire night. Mrs Montague was in her bedroom and Sinclair was downstairs. If Mrs Montague went downstairs, Elle would have seen her. Sinclair had a view of the front door until he let Monty back in a little after three. Ms Le Brey said Monty arrived at her house before midnight, crossing him off the list as well.”

I slide my feet across the floor to move my chair. There were only as many chairs as there were tables, so mine has rusty wheels. “I think we can say it wasn’t a family related murder.”

Sim agrees and pulls up a document on the PC. “The detailed autopsy report just came in.”

She waits until I manage to slide my chair next to her before she continues. “Nothing new, but there was one interesting detail: They found traces of silk fabric in the collar of his coat, while Montague Senior did not wear any silk clothes when he was found. Either he wore a silk scarf he lost, or he was strangled with a silk piece of fabric.”

I take the mouse to scroll through the text.

“I know it doesn’t help much. Every person in that neighbourhood owns some silk cloth,” Sim says. 

I roll my chair back to my side of our desk to get my report of our first meeting with the Montagues. “We should look into his company. His wife has no knowledge of his safe or the paperwork in his office. If he was as unpopular as his daughter said, the motive may have been related to his business.”

She nods. “I’ll ask the technical team to send us the contents of his computer ASAP. How is it going with the dimples?”

I forget to move my feet and my chair stops with a screech.

“What?”

“Montague. You know, your gender’s flirty blond?”

“I haven’t replied yet. I can’t possibly have dinner with him while we’re on our first case. Platt would have my head.”

Our boss hated us the second we walked in here as fresh graduates. We’re not sure if he’s racist, misogynist, homophobic or islamophobic, but likely all four. 

“There’s no way he committed the murder if he was sleeping with Ms Le Brey, so if he has anything interesting to say, it might help us. It’s dinner, not a date, right?”

“It’s Mr Montague.”

“Fair enough. He’d consider an interrogation a date.” Sim rolls her eyes, and I laugh because she is right. “Go ahead. If Platt wants an explanation we can give one.”

I nod and add him to my contacts.

> **You**
> 
> If you want to talk over dinner, we can meet at the sushi restaurant in George St. Do you have spare time tomorrow at 6?
> 
> **Monty**
> 
> For you I make time. 
> 
> See you tomorrow, darling! 😘


	3. The financial records

I wait under the hanging sign of the sushi restaurant but I feel the top of my head touch it every time I stand up straight. This restaurant was not built for people over 1,80.

Exactly six o clock, a sports car pulls up in front of me and its noise turns at least six heads. Of course it’s Monty.

“Hey.” 

“Hey,” I say, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible next to a car worth at least three grand, “There’s free parking around that corner.”

He tilts his head and tugs on my sleeve. “Could I take you somewhere a bit more private?”

“Why?”

“Because I found a great restaurant and made a reservation already. It’s my treat.”

I know I should say no. I can’t possibly accept his offer. This is already a barely acceptable thing to do. Then again, once he tells me whatever information he has for me we’ll likely never meet off-duty again, and I can’t wait around any longer. Some guy already took out his phone to take a picture.

I nod and shuffle over to the passenger’s side. If Monty meant to be thoughtful and found us a more private restaurant, he must have forgotten about his Lamborghini. The door opens upwards, which no doubt grabs the attention of everyone in the street. The engine growls as he pushes the pedals and I am fairly sure we are going over the speed limit. Monty had to help me fold myself into the seat and every time he drives over a bump in the road I bonk my head against the ceiling. Apparently Lamborghini’s are not built for people over 1,80 either.

To distract myself, I run my fingers over the dashboard and the stitching on the chair. Monty’s voice brings my attention back to him. It is hard to think about anything in his presence, but apparently this car could do it.

“Is the metal more interesting than me?” 

“Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a car like this up close.”

“This aventador is my favourite, a roadster, no wing, and all matte.”

I nod and pretend I know what that means. The name of the restaurant does not ring a bell either, but when we stop in front of The Beluga, someone in a tuxedo is there to take Monty’s car keys. Two other people open the doors for us and another waits to take us to our table. I feel ridiculously out of place when I hand the desk clerk my sixty pound coat. 

We get assigned a table on the landing with a view of the live musicians. They’re playing a romance by Beethoven and I hear the violinist has excellent vibrato.

A waiter arrives to take our order, or rather, to explain that they do not have a menu. We can choose our own drinks, however, and the amount of courses. 

“I don’t think I can stay for dessert,” I cut in as politely as possible.

Monty winks at me and asks for soup and a main course. It takes a few seconds for me to realise my accidental innuendo and I hide my face behind my napkin.

“Do you have any preferences or allergies you would like our cook to take into consideration?”

I quietly shake my head. I don’t want to insult anyone, but Monty clearly has a few requests on the tip of his tongue. No garlic, not too many onions and no fish. Preferably some asparagus and some artichokes as side dish.

The waiter brings a whiskey for Monty and a small bottle of sparkling water for me. 

“Don’t you think this place is nice? I found it by accident.”

“The music is beautiful,” I say, which might be the silliest comment I could have made about this place.

Monty smiles. “You didn’t sound convinced when I asked?” 

For some reason his smile is even more beautiful by candlelight.

“It’s generally a bad idea to get into a stranger’s car and let them drive you somewhere.

“Especially if they’re a suspect of murder?”

“You’re not a suspect anymore since you were with your girlfriend, otherwise I would never have said yes.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

I am not sure what to reply. She was very certain they were up to romantic business a few nights ago, and what do you call someone like that?

Monty senses my confusion and takes a long sip of his drink. “We’re not together, we just meet up regularly for some rich people gossip.”

I stifle a laugh, “And what would that be?”

He leans over the table and lowers his voice. “We have found out our dear acquaintance Sinjon Westfall is a lot less enthusiastic kissing down a lady than a lad.”

I picked up my glass in a clever scheme to avoid direct eye contact, but nearly spit out my water when his words land.

“H- how did you....”

“Why, we discussed it over tea, like proper British nobility of course?” He grins and raises his pinky when he takes the next sip of his drink.

With what I call excellent timing, the waiter brings us our soup. Mine is clear with numerous vegetables I cannot place, Monty’s is a rich red tomato soup. He takes a spoonful of my soup, but cannot name any of the vegetables either. In return, I can try some of his.

He tilts his head and holds the spoon up expectantly, moving it out of my reach with a laugh when I try to take it. 

I open my mouth to protest as it dawns on me what he wants me to do, but when I realise I have no idea what to say, I close it again. 

“The soup will go cold?” He smiles and the candle casts shadows on his dimples.

“Just give me the spoon. I’m not going to-”

“It is still my soup.” 

Maybe it is the lighting, or the music, or the lack of people in the restaurant, but I oblige.

“I can’t believe this,” I mutter as I lean in to let him bring the spoon closer.

The soup is good, but it’s the furthest thing from my mind. Monty’s face is so close to mine I can see his eyes are blue like the inside of the candle between us, his eyelashes are golden brown and he has a small scar above his eyebrow. Monty is looking at me too, really looking at me, with that smirk and his blue eyes, and I cannot look back anymore.

My hands fly to my face, the fact that I am as red as a tomato only poorly concealed. I turn my attention back to my bowl and hope Monty doesn’t notice. My soup-with-unknown-vegetables is too fancy to eat as quickly as I do, but I cannot look at Monty right now.

“Why do you hold your hand over the bowl?” he says after a while. We silently agree to move on to different subject.

“Sorry. The cat has a habit of putting her paw into soup.”

“Your cat?”

“My favourite cafe has a cat. Her name is Yardstick and she attracts people as well as drives them away.”

“That sounds like me. Can I meet her?”

I laugh. “I can’t take you to a cafe where people know me!. We’re here, but I still can’t be seen with you.”

“If I were not part of your case, would you take me to meet this Yardstick? She sounds like a woman to my heart.”

“You are truly Romeo aren’t you? Sadly this Capulet has a job to do.” I immediately wish I could take that back. Why can’t I think of normal words the one time I am in a nice restaurant with a cute boy? Even though it isn’t a date, I’d like to avoid saying nonsense like that.

Monty looks at me for what feels like an hour, his blue eyes trapping mine. Then he says, “these violent delights could have some more pleasurable ends?” 

His fingertips fold over mine. “I would serenade you, your freckles are adorable.”

I drop my head in my free hand to hide my blush for what feels like the fifth time this evening.

Our main courses consist of a finely grilled lamb rack, without garlic or lots of onions, and a salad with both asparagus and artichokes as the side dish. Is this what dining is like for Monty? He names whatever he wants and a chef prepares it exactly like that?

“So, what do you do for fun?”

“I play the violin. Sorry, that’s probably not very interesting.”

He pops his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his hands.

“It is when you do it, do go on.”

I tell him about the meaning of the next piece that the musicians play, how my violin is actually my father’s and how I embarrassed myself as a ten year old trying to play Bach at a school play. After that it is his turn and he tells me about his family, how the Goblin got his nickname and that he and Felicity could not stand each other until she moved out. “I’ll have to kill you if you ever tell anyone,” he says with a wink, “but I missed her.”

We talk for hours, which I only notice when the waiter asks Monty if he wants a third glass of whiskey and I recommend him something without alcohol instead.

“Come on, it’s eleven, you can’t drink water at this hour,” he teases.

Hearing the number eleven feels like someone poured a bucket of cold water over me. Sometime during the conversation, we’d moved so close together that our hands touch and I have to pull myself away from him. “I need to go home, I should be at work tomorrow morning. What was it you needed to say? Even if it’s not a golden tip, it may help us.”

Monty blinks, as if he does not understand the question. 

“The thing you called about?”

“Nothing, I just wanted to see you. Your freckles are cuter up close,” he says with his honeyed smile, but I have lost my sweet tooth for it. “Come on, darling, it did not hurt to spend time with me?”

It did not hurt at all, that is the problem. His hand reaches for mine, but I bat it away.

“Monty…. Don’t…,” I struggle to find a way to show I plan to leave, and when i cannot find my coat draped over my chair I resort to moving my entire chair back. 

“I have to go.”

I do not wait for a reply and move past the waiter still there for our drinks. The desk clerk retrieves my coat and I am already outside when I realise I cannot find the parking place because I never drove here in the first place. The wind howls and I struggle with my zipper.

Monty drops his credit card on the front desk and follows me out the door. “Percy! Wait!” His breath hitches from running. “I didn't mean to upset you! We had fun right?”

I briskly turn around and ignore him flinching again.

“Do you know how much trouble I will be in when anyone finds out I’m having dinner with one of my suspects?” I can’t stop my voice from shaking. I risked my already fragile status as newbie detective and my future career, and for what? Letting Henry Montague Junior feed me soup? _My god, how could I have been so dumb._

“You said i wasn’t-”

“That doesn’t matter!” I snap.

He does not move, his hands still in front of his chest. Only his hair whirls around his head.

“Okay.” His voice is soft when he speaks again. “I’ll take you back to where you parked your car.”

The man in the tuxedo drives the Lamborghini back and Monty opens the door for me.

“You can’t drive like this. You’ve had alcohol.”

“Not that much, darling, I-”

“It’s still dangerous.” 

The desk clerk probably saw us argue, because two taxi’s arrive on the driveway to the restaurant not even five minutes into our argument about the promillage of whiskey and its influence on short people.

I turn to look at Monty, who still stands there, still as a statue. “Please wear your coat,” I say, “it’s cold.”

I give the taxi driver the address of the sushi restaurant and call Sim. She picks up immediately.

“Percy? Is something wrong? Are you ok?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Monty didn’t have anything to say. It was just an excuse.”

“Shit. As far as I know no one from the precinct was out for sushi tonight, so you should be fine. Was the food good at least?”

“About that…”

It takes until I arrive at my original parking place to explain everything. Once I arrive home, I kiss my mother good night and immediately crawl up in bed.

  
  


The next day, we gain insight into Henri Montague Senior’s financial records.

Sim whistles as she skims through the summary. “They could really afford that painter you mentioned.”

“Monet?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s been dead for a while.”

“Point is, these guys are rich. Not big-house-and-exotic-holidays-rich, but Rich-rich.”

“I know. Monty arrived in a Lamborghini yesterday,” I say.

“Then you got something good out of this after all. A damn Lamborghini, you don’t find those anywhere.”

“Not really. I hit my head. Multiple times!”

“That’s a _you_ problem, _I_ would have had the time of my life.”

We clear our desk as best as we can to lay out the various pieces of paperwork. Besides a ridiculous amount of zeros, we find something interesting: On the day of his death, Montague Senior withdrew five thousand pounds in cash. In the past half year, he did so every three months on the same dates.

“Blackmail?” Sim says as I tap the withdrawal from a few days ago.

I nod. “Likely. Those dates are no coincidence. From late 2016 to 2018, Montague Senior withdrew five thousand on the first wednesday of every three months. There were about two years without any, then the withdrawals started again.”

I read her the dates of the withdrawals and she writes them down on a notepad, but we can’t find a significant event to explain them.

“I doubt this is a motive for murder. His unknown blackmailer, who has been collecting five thousand pounds regularly has no reason to get rid of him. That’s like slaughtering your piggy bank.”

“Thank you for that lovely mental image,” I scoff as I roll my eyes at her. 

“You’re welcome.”

“ _What can I say, except, you’re welcome_ ,” we sing to the tune of a song from Georgie’s favourite Disney movie.

I spin around in Sim’s chair, looking at the dates again. Adrian was born in 2018, but that doesn’t sound like a reason for a blackmailer to quit asking for money.

“Maybe it was not meant to be a murder?” I say eventually, “What if Montague Senior had enough, they fought, the blackmailer killed him by accident?”

Sim makes a sound of agreement. “Could be. If that person has been bothering him since 2016, it makes sense that he would have gotten fed up.”

She stands up to add the papers about the blackmail to our pin board. “Ms Montague said he angered many people. Maybe there’s something on his PC. The technical team should send the contents over soon.”

I flip through the remaining records and I spot a name I recognise next to a suspiciously large amount, even for the Montagues.

“Hey Sim, have a look at this: Eight years ago he paid a million pounds to a private account belonging to none other than Richard Peele Senior.”

She’s back at my side in a second. “A million? For what?”

“Why don’t we ask them?”

  
  


The Peeles must be of a similar standing as the Montagues and ms Le Bray, because their building is in the middle of the city where parking is so expensive we might have to cut down on a few donuts. The door has giant minimalist letters on it, spelling ‘P. Incorporated’.

“That sounds like shit.”

“Literally.”

“Shut it, or I’ll burst out laughing when we meet them.”

We walk up to the important looking man in the lobby. He wears a pinstriped suit and somehow has the aura of a bog monster.

“What are you two doing here? Get out or I’ll call security.”

Sim and I exchange a look.

_‘He’s one of those.’_

_‘Yep.’_

_‘Let’s get this over with.’_

“Mr Peele? Detective Aldajah, my colleague, detective Newton.” 

She holds her ID up with glee.

Mr Peele halts and pushes a quiff of blond hair aside. It falls back in place due to the massive amount of hair gel.

“Oh. I’m afraid I have confused you with some unsavory types who bother us sometimes.”

He seems to have finally decided we are genuine detectives and offers me his hand. “Richard Peele Junior. My father is head of our business and he does not have time for this.”

Why do rich dads name their sons exactly like themselves?

“Are we accused of murder? What trick has Montague conjured up now?”

“You are not accused of anything, mr Peele. We would just like some insight in mr Montague’s affairs and you were mentioned as business partners.” Sim explains.

Mr Peele pulls his hand back as if Sim poured gasoline on it. “Of course not. We do not do business with the Montagues. Foreign filth. Both of them,” he huffs.

I resist the urge to scowl and thank Peele Junior for his time.

Back at the Eleftheria, we agree the flirty blonde menaces, as we’ve decided to call them unofficially, were easier to deal with.

Even after Monty tricked me into that dinner. Being overly appreciated is better than Peele’s bog monster stare.

“There are a lot of public records of their feud. They’ve sued each other for fraud, defamation, libel and slander…. name a crime and they’ve accused each other of it.”

I scoop some leftover cream from my coffee cup and name the dumbest crime I can think of. “Jaywalking near each other’s building?”

“Yep. In 2013.”

I run my hands through my hair. “My God. Why?” 

“You ask yours, I’ll ask mine.”

The buzzing of my phone interrupts our analysis of the Montague’s business feud. Speak of the devil, it’s Monty.

> **Monty**
> 
> Hey can i still meet yuor cat

“Him again?” Sim drinks the last bit of her coffee.

“Yep. Says he wants to meet. He has some nerve to try.” I shove my phone back in my pocket.

“Do you want to? You made it to eleven while I had to scrape you off the Elefteria’s bar at nine one time.”

“One time! Will you ever let me live that down?”

It was a game night with the regulars of the Eleftheria when I was seventeen and had been up at six in the morning, but that is no excuse.

“You having one drink and falling asleep during a night out? Don’t count on it.” Scipio appears behind the bar to give me a good hearted pat on the back. “What’s the trouble?”

I say nothing. How do I explain to my surrogate dad that I accidentally went on a date with someone involved in my first investigation and got a minor headache from the ceiling of a lamborghini in the process?

“Percy had dinner with someone who wanted it to be a date,” Sim says, which is a perfectly acceptable explanation for a fairly unacceptable situation.

“Ah,” Scipio says, “and do you want to see him again?”

The first answer that comes to mind is ‘yes, absolutely yes’, while it should have been a firm ‘no, he is work related’.

“Doesn’t matter. We need to get this case solved, maybe if he’s still interested after we find the culprit? He’ll probably have moved on to someone else.”

Monty is charming, good-looking and rich. But he’s also sweet and clever and listened to my stories. His smile could probably melt butter.

Of course he won’t wait around for me. It’s far more likely that I’m just a distraction to cope with the loss of his father. Or an attempt to get more details about the investigation by means of seduction.

Scipio and Sim know me well enough to understand that when I hadn’t said no when they asked if I wanted to see Monty again, it meant I do want a second date.

Sim hops behind the bar to make us a second cup of coffee. “You knooooow…” she crows, and I know that tone as the start of a questionable suggestion, “if you do want to, take him through the back door of the Eleftheria wednesday night. I’m helping Seo-yeon Park with the speeding tickets tomorrow, and Platt is there the whole evening too.”

“A whole evening?”

Looking at video footage to send tickets to speeding cars may be the most painstaking job there is and it does not surprise me that Platt assigned it to Park, who is the rookie of this precinct.

“Unfortunately. I want to make sure she gets it right. Can’t give Platt a reason to fire her over a paperwork error. It’s the perfect opportunity for a clandestine half-date. Right Scip?”

Scipio nods. “I’ll make sure he isn’t seen by anyone you do not want to.”

I hate how my heart skips at the possibility.

Sim and Scipio both look at me with big grins and I highly suspect they will high five later.

“Alright. Thank you so much!”

“Hey, you did the same for me when I had a ridiculous crush in year eleven. I even started wearing hot pink hijabs.”

“Yeah, I remember. I’ll make sure you will never live that down.”

> **You**
> 
> Can you come to the sushi restaurant at the same time wednesday?
> 
> No surprises this time, please. Just park nearby. 
> 
> **You**
> 
> And please don’t draw a lot of attention.
> 
> **You**
> 
> Do you have another car?
> 
> **Monty**
> 
> Of course
> 
> Fortune favours teh flirtatious and i cant wait to see your face ahain 😘😘

I make a mental note to bring Sim and Park a few donuts before their shift.

  
  


~

  
  


**MONTY, EARLIER THAT DAY**

My car is parked diagonally, but I know she doesn’t plan on going anywhere. Hopefully her neighbours do not plan on leaving either. She opens the door before I can ring the bell, wearing a beautiful dress from Marchesa. The crystal vase on the table in the hallway bears the exact same flowers as embroidered on the dress.

“ _Bon soirée, mon ami._ ”

“Hello, darling.”

We drop down on her settee and drink champagne straight from the bottle. At least I do, Jeanne insists she use a glass.

“Your so-called ‘great catch’ was a bore.” She huffs. “I went to the bar you mentioned to find the guy you gushed about and he turns out to be a talentless crybaby. You better have my apology.”

“Not fair. The last guy you told me about turned out to be straight, and you still haven’t delivered the Saint Laurent you owe me.”

I present her an orange box nonetheless and try my best to hide the fact that I totally forgot to order the apology scarf. Percy insisted I was too drunk to drive and waited to see me get in the taxi, so I spent the entire morning annoying Lockwood into walking to The Beluga to get my car back.

“A sash?”

“Surprise!” I wave my hands in a festive gesture and she responds by throwing the blue band in my face.

“You little bitch,” she laughs, “you said it was a silk scarf! You even got an official box for this.”

I feign offense and throw it back at her. “It is? My robe is La Perla and who says you cannot wear this as a scarf?”

“Sounds fun but I’m not in the mood today.”

“I was busy ok?”

Jeanne flings the sash over her shoulder and reaches for a bucket of ice cream.

“Busy doing that detective, hopefully. How was it?” She dramatically takes a bite and wiggles her eyebrows.

A huge disappointment, I want to say, but not for the reason you think of. I had made the taxi stop at a Tesco express to get a bottle of spirits to wipe Percy’s distressed face from my mind. 

“We... didn’t.” I murmur in defeat.

“No? Not even a kiss?”

“No.”

Jeanne pokes my chest with the plastic spoon in triumph. “You just broke your streak, HAH! What now, mister ‘I can get anyone on the first date!’”

“It’s not that I failed! I forgot the time.” I sit up straighter to defend my honour as Casanova, despite the fact that his dismay bothered me more than the fact that I didn’t get to see him undress. (And I really wanted to see him undress.)

“You forgot the time?”

“I don’t know, okay? We talked, I flashed the dimples, we get a drink and suddenly it’s eleven o clock and he goes home.”

Jeanne still does not look like she buys my story. “Was he hotter up close at least?”

I think about Percy and can’t think of anything momentarily. I like the sound of his laugh, the way his hair falls over his eyes when he hides his face in his hands and blushes. I could say the way he speaks about his violin almost convinced me classical music is interesting.

Jeanne is still waiting, so I go with my favourite physical feature of his: “He has freckles.” 

She passes me the bucket and grins, “On the rest of his body too?”

“He wore a turtleneck, so I didn’t get to see. And he’s tall, like, you-in-heels but-taller- tall.”

“You have a thing for height don’t you?”

I know that she knows I do and take a scoop from the bucket. Mint and chocolate, my favourite flavour.

“Good, or you’d never get it on with anyone.”

I fling the plastic spoon at her. “I hate you.”

“I know. Score on the second date then?”

“I doubt there will be one,” I whine, “he thought it was work related and left when I said it was a date.”

“Oh shit, he’s mad?”

I take a long swig from the bottle as an answer.

“Either you spill the details, or we get pissed and do some acquisitional therapy to forget about him.”

Forgetting about my failed date sounds excellent. “I’m getting the liquor.”

“And your credit card. You still owe me a scarf.”

We get very drunk, eat ice cream until we both get a headache and go through some of the unopened boxes in her living room. She slips out of her dress to try on a ball gown and I nearly get my fingers stuck in the laces of a heeled shoe. 

I am too drunk to properly lace them up and make an ungraceful tumble off the settee. Thank God Jeanne has a soft carpet. 

Clearly I am not drunk enough, because I still hear Felicity screaming.

_‘I was only fifteen, I didn’t know!’_

_“When I was fifteen, I already knew for years!”_ I shout back.

I open another bottle of spirits to douse the anguish in her voice, but it only stokes the fire.

“What?” Jeanne asks, giggly from her champagne.

I did not know I said that out loud.

“I did not know,” I slur, “I never knew.”

I reach for my phone and message him.

> **You**
> 
> Hey can i still meet yuor cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every comment feeds me motivation.
> 
> Huge thanks to Em_gray, who was the beta reader of chapter 1 and 2, this chapter wasn’t beta read because I am on my way to hide in bed.  
> And I have taken the following quote "be the change you want to see in the tag" (by goldenthunderstorms) to heart: The Monty and Jeanne best friends agenda.


	4. The PC

Montague Senior’s PC gets delivered with a flash drive of extra data.  After giving Platt a long briefing on what we’ve been up to, in which he accuses us of being lazy for not having a suspect yet, we can get back to work.

We read through endless e-mails containing words only veteran business majors could understand and kept a tally of the amount of passive aggressive corporate lingo.  The e-mail that stood out was one without subject, sent on the evening of Montague Senior’s death. It contained only a short bit of text. 

> I told you so.
> 
> Sent from my iPhone.

“Finally,” Sim sighs, “something less formal. Let’s have a look at the two images attached.”

I peer over Sim’s head to get a glimpse of the screen. It is a screenshot of a conversation.

“‘Your eyes are blue as crabs?’ What kind of poetry is that?” Sim scoffs. “Oh god. It gets worse.”

She slams the laptop shut before I can see the poem. 

“What?”

She groans, and if she hadn’t dropped her head on the desk, I would have snatched the laptop to have a look myself. In secondary school, we had to dissect a heart and Sim did most of the work while I did my best not to faint, so whatever this is, it’s bad.

“Sim? Are you ok? Is it gruesome?”

“No. Worse. It’s about….” She groans again. “The body part I am absolutely not attracted to.”

_ Oh, right,  _ I think. Sim would consider that a million times worse than dissecting during biology class.

“Do you want me to look at the other one?”

She does not answer and just shoves the laptop into my hands. I open the second image. It’s another screenshot of a conversation.

> **You**
> 
> I loved our coffee date 💕
> 
> **You**
> 
> Miss you 💕
> 
> **You**
> 
> Do you want to go to the new Italian place friday? I heard they have a great pasta menu.
> 
> **Monty** ❤️
> 
> If it ends with my necktie around your wrists and the bedpost ✖️✖️

I recoil with the same horror as Sim, nearly dropping the laptop.  _ Monty sent this. Monty texted someone this. Monty put his necktie around someone’s-  _ I shake my head before I can think any more.

“Is it bad?” Sim sounds as worried as I had a moment ago.

“It involves a necktie.”

Curiosity gets the better of her and she looks through her fingers. “Do you think he means it? This sounds like a terrible, exaggerated joke to me.”

“I do not have the experience to confirm or deny.”

She slaps me on the back of my head in response. Thank goodness she does not comment on the fact that Monty is involved in this conversation and moves on to the logical conclusion. “This stuff is an excellent reason for blackmail.”

“Definitely.”

Sim puts the laptop back on the desk and closes the e-mail.  Having decided we saw enough mentally scarring words for today, this week and this entire month, we return to the blackmail part of it all.

“If this is the blackmail, the blackmailer isn’t very good at this. His name is in the e-mail address.  [ Sinjon.Westfall.00@gmail.com ](mailto:Sinjon.Westfall@mail.com) . I think we should have a chat with this Sinjon.”

She rolls her chair back to our shared computer to look for him.

“Sorry, did you say Sinjon Westfall?”

I think back to my dinner with Monty, where he had casually told me he and Jeanne had tea while discussing Sinjon’s qualities as a lover.

Sim, who is not aware of any of this, does not look up from the computer. “Yep. That’s the lad who sent the e-mail. I found him enrolled in a London University. Why?”

“Monty told me he had a thing with this Sinjon.”

Sim nods. “At least that explains how he got these.”

“Do you think it’s him?”

She shrugs. “Could be. Montague Senior would pay him well to keep this out of the press.”

Sinjon Westfall has a large studio on the top floor of his university dorm and looks like he stepped off a magazine cover. He has perfect brown hair, a squared yet boyish jaw and a set of large blue eyes. He is the kind of boy who catches the eye of boys and girl alike, and who is objectively a million times more attractive than me.  _ If he is with Monty, I do not stand a chance. _

“Detective Aldajah, my colleague, detective Newton.” Sim waves her ID, even though he already let us in.

Sinjon pales, his hands tighten around his chair. “Did he sue?”

“Who would want to sue you, Mr Westfall, and why?”

He does not answer.

After almost a whole minute, Sim speaks. “We are here because of the recent death of Henry Montague Senior. Were you in a relationship with his son?”

He recoils as if Sim had slapped him. 

“Wh- I’m not gay! My father’s friends talk nonsense when they drink.”

Perhaps being accused of being gay does feel like a slap to him. I look at Sim.

_ ‘Closeted?’ _

_ ‘Yep.’ _

“It took some time for my father to get used to the idea as well. We have no reason to tell yours.” Sim offers him a knowing smile and he mellows.

“We met in secondary school. I helped him with his homework. We kept in touch.”

Sim gently repeats her question.  “Do you have a relationship with Henry Montague?”

He fiddles with a loose thread on his jumper. “Yes. No. Kind of?”

Sim and I exchange a glance. The messages we read sounded more like an intimate relationship.

“We are not boyfriends or anything. I want to, definitely, but-” Sinjon says with the tone of a scorned mistress,  **“** he never goes to me whenever he is… Whenever he feels bad.”

“I see,” Sim says, still as gentle as possible, “however, we have found some information implying you were unofficially together.”

“Unofficially together?” His expression sours into a scowl. “For one, we never went out for dinner together. To talk, you know, like a date. We used to talk about school, and about,” he pauses, letting the silence speak for itself, “you know. Never too long, though. He took me out for coffee, only once, but put his hand on my... “ he pauses again, “knee. He put his hand on my knee before I could drink it.” 

His strained voice all but confirms it was not his knee Monty puts his hand on.

“I like Monty. I really like him. I wish I was his boyfriend! Who wouldn’t, you know?” He smiles, then corrects himself to Sim. “Not you, for obvious reasons, sorry.”

“Do you feel like you are the only one to have this less than unofficial relationship with Mr Montague?” I don’t even know why I am asking this. I doubt it is relevant, but I can pretend it is to get my answer.

“Monty is with so many people. I thought we could be something, because I helped him with school and we saw each other multiple times.” His hands clasp the bottom of his jumper. “But no. There’s only one other person I know he went on a date with twice.”

“And with date, do you mean a ‘real’ date, as you described? Dinner in an Italian restaurant?”

I feel Sim’s eyes on my back as I ask the question and I know I should prepare an answer for when she asks me why I am so interested in Monty’s relationship status after our single dinner.

His eyes flit from Sim, to me and back to Sim as it dawns on him that we saw the texts clearly not meant for our eyes.

“No. He doesn’t do that with anyone except her. Whatever he has with Jeanne, I can’t beat that. Monty taking someone out to dinner and not taking them home after?” He laughs weakly, as if the mere idea is impossible. “He wouldn’t bother. I thought I could be that guy, you know? But since you’re here, I messed it up. Badly.”

We offer him a sympathetic smile. I enjoyed my dinner with Monty, but I am not naive enough to believe I am the first to catch his eye. It is too easy to fall for his smile and his attention, and it seems Sinjon fell into the same Monty-shaped trap as me.

“Why did you send that e-mail to his father?” Sim asks.

Sinjon steps back, clutching the bottom of his jumper even tighter. “I- I didn’t mean to! I sent it to the wrong e-mail address.” His voice breaks in a panicked cry. “Richard said I never went on a date with him. A real date, without… You know. Without sleeping over.” He throws his hands in the air. “As if he ever did! No one’s ever managed!”

I do not get a chance to dwell on that, because Sinjon delves into the next part of his tirade.

“I never wanted to send it to his father! If my father saw he’d disown me, I just wanted to show him it was not true. That Monty likes me, actually likes me. We had coffee together. Richard does not even have the money to get a hotel.”

Sim stops him before he can continue. “Who is this Richard and how do you know him?”

“Richard Peele. He was in secondary school with us.”

Sim and I exchange a look. 

‘Not him again.’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

“What do you mean by Richard does not even have the money to get an hotel?” I ask.

“You know. His Rolex and Rolls-Royce always change because they get claimed.”

I note it down while Sim asks the question we could have started this conversation with. “Where were you on the night of Friday to Saturday between midnight and three?”

“Here. On the campus,” he says firmly.

We request the security footage around the student dorms and go directly to Platt’s boss to request permission to look at the Peeles’ finances. The man was nearing his retirement age and while he had a stiff upper lip, the well practiced list of arguments persuaded him. Platt could do nothing but stare daggers.

While we can only get a small portion of the information, it is immediately clear that the Peeles aren’t doing well. P. Incorporated has almost been bankrupted in 2016 and is nearing bankruptcy again. We don’t bother printing the records of their haggle with various creditors because Platt would never give us new cartridges.

“Seriously? How many of Monty’s exes do we have to meet? First Jeanne, then Sinjon and now Richard is an ex too?”

Sim spins around in her chair while she waits for the picture of Sinjon rolls out of the printer.

“Are they his exes if he’s never dated them?” I say. Except for a childish fling when I was fourteen that mostly consisted of sitting next to each other during lunch break, I do not have any exes.

Sim pushes a cup of tea in my direction. Along with the last desk, oldest pc and rusty chair, Platt also gave us the slowest printer.

“If it’s true what Sinjon said, you’re the only person to have dinner with Monty Montague without ending up in his bed. Congratulations.”

I choke on my tea.“Sim!”

“I’m saying congratulations?! Your date is tonight, right?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Fine. Does Scipio know?”

I remember asking Scipio if I could use the private tea room to meet someone. He’d agreed without asking questions, though Ebrahim and Georgie pestered me for an hour to find out who the lucky guy was.

“He does. It’s just for once, since we won’t see each other again.”

I am not sure who I am saying this to, Sim or myself. With all I learned about Monty’s relationship status, I know he is not the type for second dates. 

“Then why are you hogging Scip’s private tearoom?”

“Because I yelled at him the last time, and that was unfair.”

“Just watch out for your knees. You know what Sinjon said.”

I give her chair a big shove as I walk to the pin board. “You don’t really believe that, do you? Obviously Monty wouldn’t talk about the people he failed to take home after a date. And don’t forget that he may be our blackmailer-slash-murderer.” We decided to mark all of Monty’s romantic associates with a red dot, and the amount of people with red dots is growing by the day. “Murder is a bit drastic if you want to avoid anyone seeing that e-mail. I got the security footage from his university and there’s nothing to see. No way to confirm or deny whether he’s left the campus that night.”

“If it’s him, why would he send this to Montague Senior before killing him?” Sim says. “There are no other screenshots like this on the entire PC, no hidden correspondence either.”

“It could be the Peeles? Blackmailing their business rival sounds like something they would do. Is blackmail one of the crimes they’ve sued each other for?”

“Oddly enough, no.” Sim sips from her tea. “They have for littering.”

“Of course they have.”

  
  


That evening, I make all the tables of the Eleftheria while waiting for Monty to arrive.  If he arrives in that Lamborghini again I would be able to hear him. I’d also get a million questions from Ebrahim and Georgie later. 

I pace around behind the bar and sell takeaway coffee and cakes to the people coming in, disappointed that every single one of them is not Monty.  On my third round rearranging the napkins, I hear a sound coming from the back and rush over to see a shiny Audi A8 scraping Scipio’s bins.

Monty staggers out, pressing a button on the keys. “Sorry, I just got this one, and it doesn’t work like I thought, I hope-”

“I’m sorry about last time,” I interrupt him, “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

He stops pressing random buttons on his car keys and looks up at me.

“You couldn’t have known it was such a big deal. It was unfair to storm off like that.”

He smiles his dimpled smile.  “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you out the normal way. Do you think your boss will be mad about that?” He points his thumb over his shoulder to where the front of the Audi left a long scratch on one of the bins.

“Scipio is not really my boss, and his bins are tough.”

He laughs. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Kind of? Well, no one should see us together, or know we speak to each other,” I should add ‘and this is not a date,’ but I swallow the words. “Promise?”

Monty has to stand on his toes to bring his face to my ear.

“So this is a top secret rendez-vous, absolutely classified-” he whispers.

“Monty…”

He lands on the heels of his feet and almost falls backwards. It’s cute.

“Alright. I promise. Are you really in that much trouble if anyone finds out?”

“Yes. Both Sim and I could lose our jobs over this.” I try not to think about this too much, but I cannot shake the feeling of dread.

“Because you’re having coffee with me? I thought I wasn’t a suspect?”

“You’re not a suspect, but our boss wouldn’t care and give us the boot anyway.”

“I will take this secret to my grave.”  He slides his finger over his lips to mimic a zipping motion that makes me wonder what it would be like to kiss him.

“Not funny?” he asks, unaware that I am staring.

“Not particularly,” I say, “I really hope you stay alive.”

Scipio claps me on the back when we enter the cafe.  “There you are! If I knew you’d be gone that long I’d have asked to bring some extra tea from the back. Who’s the lucky gentleman?”

“I am Monty, sir.” Monty extends a polite hand, but Scipio claps him on the back too.

“Scipio. What would you like to drink?”

Monty freezes momentarily, his hand still somewhere in the air. “I- I’ll just have whatever Percy is having.”

I lead him to the private tearoom, which is less of a tearoom, and more an old walk-in closet renovated into a space to house another table. It is not visible from the outside or most of the cafe. I’d ask most people what they think of the Eleftheria, but not Monty. It is a far cry from The Beluga, and even Georgie’s origami napkins on the tables cannot not hide the piled up boxes in the hallway and two broken lights.

“This sure feels like a secret rendez-vous.” He gives me a mischievous smile and I feel the heat creep towards my cheeks.

“Oh please, Georgie can see us from here.” I gesture to table four, where Georgie is doing his homework as usual.

“Is he your partner in crime?”

“He’s 14.”

“The most vicious age.”

“Hey! Georgie is a sweetheart. He crafted the pennant flags himself.”

He rolls his eyes. “You should have seen Felicity at 14.”

“I have seen your sister once, I don’t believe she is that scary.”

“Ah. An only child I see.”

He stares at me in all seriousness and I wonder if I misheard anything when he doubles over laughing.

“See! That confirms it! Only only children make that confused face.” He pokes me in the chest. “You should work on your poker face, darling.”

“Am I that obvious?” I snort and he pokes my cheek.

“Yes, very unfortunate. You also blush easily.”

Damn. He is right, because I feel my face heat up.

He does not not notice, or at least pretends he does not. “And where is the famous Yardstick?”

I take the opportunity to go escape the small space with nothing but Monty and my red cheeks and retreat to the bar. Yardstick is sleeping on the shelf with coffee beans and I gently pick her up. 

“Come girl, someone who is almost as charming as you wants to meet you.”

“Things are going well?” Scipio asks.

“Maybe?” 

I don’t know what Scipio would define as good. Is this a date after all? I’m not even sure what I would define as good. Objectively speaking, it would be good if Monty left right now and never returned.

Yardstick lays down in the middle of our table, determined to continue her nap.

“Now there’s no room for coffee anymore,” Monty pouts, but he scratches her behind her ears nonetheless.

Scipio brings us our coffee and a small tray with tiny cakes. We immediately return the saucers and try to fit our cups on a surface that is not Yardstick. The tray has to go on the third chair.

“Two caramel lattes. Enjoy. I’ll give you two some peace and quiet.”

Monty watches Scipio disappear back into the cafe. “He’s your dad?”

“Almost. I’d name him my dad,” I hear myself say, “but he won’t give you the shovel talk.”

“I wasn’t aware we had the sort of relationship that required a shovel talk.”

He winks and gives me the look that makes my knees feel like jelly. I  _ am _ thinking of this as a date.

I steer away from the topic of dating by saying the first thing that comes to mind. “He and my mother are close friends. Especially after my dad left her during their engagement.”

“I’m sorry,” Monty whispers, “that’s terrible. My father wasn’t the kindest but he never ran.”

It is a very dumb topic for a date, I realise a few seconds later, but I am a few seconds too late to pick another subject. I should have commented on the coffee and asked if he liked caramel latte.

“He did not run, he really wanted to marry, but his parents disapproved of her and made him cancel the wedding. We never saw him again.”

Monty says nothing to that.

“Scipio gave her a crash course about barista work and helped her fake a resume that said she had years of experience working here. It’s a crime, I know.”

Monty takes a small cake from the tray. “Cheating your resume is hardly a crime, do you know how many tests I’ve cheated in school?”

“I’ll confess another crime,” I whisper as I lean over the table, “I watch all my movies illegally.”

Monty puts both his hands on his chest and gasps. “Detective Newton! Breaking the law you have sworn to uphold!”

We break into laughter, loud enough for Yardstick to lift her head.

“A little piracy never hurt anyone!”

When he laughs his curls dance around his head and I wonder how he manages to toss a cake wrapper and still look this pretty.

“How is she now?”

I wanted to move on something unrelated, but he looks at me so intently, I finish the story about my mother.

“She still has the two jobs she got with that resume. She works double, but we’re good. I usually hang around here until she comes home. I also did my homework at table four.”

Georgie is still sitting at table four and sighs like his geography textbook told him the earth is flat.

“I would like to know about you. You know these things about friends, right?” I feel the word ‘friends’ heavy on my tongue.

“I doubt I am as interesting as you.” He rests his chin on his hand and his head tilts just so he can look at me through his eyelashes.

“If you really want to know, I’ll tell you about how I became a detective?”

“I do. How did you get from table four to being the luminous detective Newton?”

“I am not luminous, I am a beginner.”

“Lies and slander, darling, I am sure you are amazing at it. Otherwise you would not be a detective at this age.”

I cannot stop the rush of pride running over my face. There are almost no twenty-two year old detectives, but I am one.

“I saw that,” he smirks. “Tell me, how did you become a detective at this age?”

He pops his other hand under his chin and I realise he is giving me a look over.

“Uh,” I stammer. “Usually you start with the basic field work, but top graduates may move on to detective cases earlier.”

How am I supposed to form coherent sentences when he is looking at me like that for so long?

“It took a lot of work to convince them. To let Sim and I walk that route, but we’re here. You are our first case, actually.”

Monty finally looks away to take another small cake. “Why? I doubt your grades were pirated.” 

I purse my lips. “No.” 

Our grades were the best. We studied day and night to prove that we were good enough. Passing was not enough, we had to be better than all our classmates.  “The boss disliked us on sight,” I decide to say.

“Asshole.”

“I really want to stick around as a detective.”

“The thrill must be something huh?”

“No, the pay is better. I hope I can afford mom a five day work week after all those years.”

Scipio brings us an assortment of mezze for dinner and gives me a look that tells me I will hear about this from Ebrahim and Georgie later.

Monty was exceptionally curious about how Yardstick got her name, (Georgie named her when he was eight and the name stuck), and how she became the Eleftheria’s resident cat, (by purring adorably at customers and staff alike). She draped herself over the entire left side of our table so we have to put half of the plates of mezze on the third chair. 

I quietly curse Sim for mentioning the knee thing. Every time his hand disappears under the table to change some plates, I stiffen. He does not, luckily.

I know I should not be enjoying myself like this. Monty is the son of the victim of my first murder case, I know he has a long string of other people, Sinjon among them, but here, with Yardstick purring and his smile, all my reservations melt like snow. We are just us, enjoying some of Scipio’s dinner and drinking sweet coffee.

We fight with Yardstick over a piece of bacon, get second and third cups of coffee and he insists I feed him some soup this time, which I valiantly refuse. In general, we laugh a lot, and when his hand slides under mine, I link our fingers together.

I’ve forgotten the time when my phone rings.

“Sim? Aren’t you doing the speeding tickets thing with agent Park?”

“Real sorry to disturb you on your non-date but you have to come to work,” she says. It is more of a command.

“Now? It’s-” Monty holds up his phone to show me the time. “-past eight o’clock?”

“Yes. Now. I spent the last three hours looking at blurry footage of cars and number plates, have a look.”

The picture she sends me is blurry indeed, but I can see a frog sticker on one of the back windows.

“Did you get it?”

“Yeah.”

“I noticed that exact same sticker in the university room, so I ran the plate and this car belongs to Johanna Hoffman,” Sim continues, “due to the rain we cannot see who is behind the wheel, but unless Johanna lent her car to someone, they lied about Felicity’s alibi. At least one of them was on the road this way on the evening of Montague Senior’s death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments provide me much meeded serotonin and motivation *hint hint*


	5. The fake alibi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd because I am ✨nervous✨  
> Thank you Em for beta reading all the other chapters. If there are spelling or grammar mistakes in here, I'm sorry!

We barely have to introduce ourselves when Johanna Hoffmann bursts into tears to confess she wasn’t in their room that night.

“I didn’t want Feli to be accused of murder! She didn’t do it, I swear!”

Sim cocks an eyebrow. “I understand, but you do realise this has made everything more complicated?’

“I’m so sorry,” Johanna sniffles.

“It is good that we know now. What were you doing that night?” I ask.

She blows her nose in an embroidered handkerchief. “I was at the rose park, studying the nightlife. They say foxes tear open the bins at night and I wanted to see.”

Felicity picks up one of the many superdrug bags stashed on their desk to get Johanna a makeup wipe, then turns to us. “We should have said that immediately, detectives. I didn’t know what I was thinking.”

I nod. “You were here all night regardless? There is no chance you borrowed Johanna’s car?”

Felicity shakes her head. “I don’t have a driver's license.”

We run to our car and shoot insults back and forth about how neither of us bothered to bring an umbrella. 

“I’ll return to the precinct and check the public transport,” Sim says.

“Then I’ll go to the rose park to look for foxes.”

After two days of decent, yet extremely British weather, the sky Gods have sent a true storm down on us. Even if Sim had brought an umbrella, it would not have survived for long. The sky rumbles, wind crashing into the leaves like waves hitting the shore and whipping my curls into a tangled tumbleweed. The rose park is deserted. Dried hydrangeas roll over the lawn like true tumbleweeds.

> **Monty**
> 
> Hey can I take you out for lunch rn? I promise it’ll be secret and everything.
> 
> **You**
> 
> I can’t. I’m at the rose park. Maybe tomorrow?

I shuffle to the nearest bin, minding my step. The last thing I want is to fall into a giant puddle. I find the sign in a prickly bush, torn off by the wind. It warns for foxes, just like Johanna said.

Ten minutes later I see Monty’s audi rolling up. He parks double and swings open the door dangerously fast.

“Hey,” he says.

I don’t think the circumstances for a non-date with Monty could be worse, but I smile as soon as I see him. He is pretty, even now. His golden hair whirls around his head and his eyes are brighter than the sky.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well there’s no one here, and you still owe me for running away _again._ ”

“And seeing each other in a park in the worst weather of the entire week will make up for it?”

He has to hold onto his scarf to stop it from flying in his face, but winks nonetheless. “Perhaps. If not, we will have to schedule another day.”

“It’s raining.”

“I have an umbrella, darling.”

I laugh when he puts it up. The wind catching the umbrella is so strong it nearly drags him away.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Here, let me.” I take the umbrella, and it must be made of titanium, for it does not budge in the storm.

We stay close together and he links his arm through mine as we walk.

Classmates in high school said they were proud as a peacock with a girl on their arm and I wonder if this is what it feels like. Sim went to the school dance with me, but I only remember us awkwardly shuffling around and going home as soon as the majority had enough drinks not to notice us sneaking out.

“You’re holding it too high,” he sulks, “I’m still getting wet.”

“I have to, otherwise I can’t stand up straight.”

“You’re too tall.”

“And you are a menace.”

“These curls are not made to survive hurricanes,” he whines.

I resist the urge to touch them. “Oh please, the tousled look suits you. I’m sure _you_ always look good.”

Monty nudges his shoulder against mine. “And you don’t?”

 _Not really?_ I think. I am not exactly bad-looking, but that’s about it.

“You are as handsome as you are tall, darling,” he says.

“Very flattering, but a lie. All the beautiful people look like you.”

Monty smirks, “Like me?”

“Your eyes, your hair.”

“Oh.”

“Your ivory skin.”

Monty spots some small white flowers and picks a handful.

“A shame,” he says, “look at these.”

 _They are snowdrops Monty_ , I want to say, but he turns to me and all my words dry.

Monty gently places the flowers in my hair. Their stems fit perfectly in my course curls.

“Here. Not a single one can hold a candle to your face.”

He adds a flower with every word.

“You are gorgeous.” 

I know I am staring, but I cannot stop. His face is right in front of mine and the feeling of his eyes looking at me so intently steals my breath away.

“Maybe the world only thinks I am beautiful, for if it got its eyes on you, all the others do not stand a chance.”

He runs out of snowdrops before the oxygen returns to my lungs and I think I make a terrible gurgling noise for which I cannot apologise due to the fact that I am still staring and breathless.

Monty takes his eyes off me, but before I can take in some air, he grabs my hand.

“Shit, someone’s there.”

I drop the umbrella when he starts running in the opposite direction.

“Where are you going?”

“No idea!”

His scarf trails behind him like a flag. This starts to feel more like a top secret rendez-vous every second.

We run into an old gazebo and duck. I almost have to lie down to hide behind the banister. Monty tucks my ponytail into my coat.

I put my finger to my lips.

The rain hits the gazebo at the wrong angle, and the water the umbrella was supposed to protect us from still hits our faces.

“Hello? Did anyone drop this?” A voice calls.

“You did,” Monty whispers.

“Shhh!” I clasp my hand over his mouth.

My hand grips his shoulder, nails digging into his scarf. His head is pressed to my chest and I can smell his cologne. It’s nice. We wait, holding our breath as the other park visitor walks past us. I hear their steps on the other side of the wood.

When I am certain the hiker is gone, I let Monty go. He his head to face me, but we stay huddled together, my hand on his collar and my thumb still rests on his bottom lip. 

We take one look at each other and burst out laughing. This entire situation is ridiculous. We’re in our early twenties playing hide and seek as if we are kids, running from a stranger taking a stroll in a park during a storm. 

Our eyes meet, and I want to look at him forever. A drop of water rests on his eyelashes and his breath turns to puffs of smoke. It’s warm against my thumb.

I do not know why, but I want to kiss him and so I do. It’s a soft kiss. Our lips brush so briefly it could have been the wind.

“Sorry,” I gasp, “I-”

_I shouldn’t have kissed you. I shouldn’t have tried._

This time Monty puts his hand over my mouth. “Do that again.”

He does not have to say it twice. I take his head in my hands and bring his lips to mine.

We kiss long and softly until we are out of breath, then we gasp for air and do it all over again. Neither of us mind the rain streaming down our faces.

“Should i drive you home?” Monty asks when a particular drop of water in an eye makes us halt.

I came here on foot when the rain was limited to a few drops that did not warrant an umbrella and I don’t look forward to walking.

“Uh. Sure.…” I blurt out.

As soon as we stand up it dawns on me what happened, and bileful shame pushes me into a pit of painful silence. We walk to his car without saying a word.

It was dumb to kiss him. An impulsive decision I will certainly regret in the next five seconds. (If I am not regretting it already.)

I give him directions and he does not park double again. We awkwardly shuffle inside and for the hundredth time I wonder if I should have walked home and booked the first flight to Alaska.

“So, uh….” I stammer, “do you want some tea?”

“Oh, yes. Sure. Can i hang my coat here?”

“Yes.”

I mindlessly fill my kettle and flip the switch. “Do you- uh, want green tea or earl gray?”

“I’m sorry,” Monty says, “I should go and we’ll forget seeing each other today. It didn’t mean anything.” He’s still standing in my mother’s small hallway, holding his coat. “Right?”

_It did mean something to me._

All the books and films and songs describing a first kiss could never explain the feeling to me. The fluttering in my stomach and the rushed beating of my heart were inventions of literature that did not happen, especially not to me, and especially not in a run down gazebo in a park.

I know it won’t last. Whatever this is, it will go up in flames and leave my inexperienced heart burnt to a crisp. Because this is not a song, this is Monty Montague, with his dimpled smile and long string of lovers, and I am just me.

I know I should lie and say it did not do anything for me at all and save myself the struggle, but what if it is worth the pain?

I swallow. “I felt something.” My voice is weak and I am not sure if he heard me. “I felt a lot.”

Monty crosses the distance between us and his fingers weave through mine as if they belong there.

“Then we shouldn’t forget.”

My heart skips more than a few beats as I draw in a breath. This cannot be true. _This is Monty._

“Can I kiss you?” I ask, though it is more of a whisper.

“Abso-bloody-lutely.” He grins and slings his arms around my neck.

I make us some new tea and go upstairs to show Monty my violin.

“What do you play? Old orchestra music? Rihanna?”

I take my violin out of its case. “Who says I have to choose?”

On my mother’s rare free days we would go to the Eleftheria and I would start the afternoon with Bach and end with current radio hits while the visitors danced and clapped along. Some of my happiest memories were made on those evenings.

“Do you want something sweet and romantic or a pop tune?”

“Who says I have to choose?” He mimics. “You pick.”

I tap him on the head with the bow. “Not helping.

“Then play something we can waltz to.” he grins, and I am not sure if he is joking.

I start playing a song that could fit in almost every category and watch as the notes start to turn into lyrics in his head.

_Everytime, that you get undressed, I hear symphonies in my head_

He starts whispering the words to the song.

_I wrote this song just looking at you, oh_

He looks at me and his eyes burn into my skin. How can he make my heart beat faster by merely looking at me?

_Yeah the drums they swing low, and the trumpets they go_

“We could waltz to this, darling,” he says softly, “I would love to.”

“I’m playing the violin, Monty. What if I knock you out with the bow?”

“Then you will have to catch me. I’ll swoon in your arms.”

He dramatically falls back on the bed and I miss a few notes.

I sit down and draw him into another kiss. His hand rests on my back, between my shoulder blades. It feels nice, and we keep kissing until my phone buzzes.

“What time is it?” I mutter as I put the thing on silent.

“Time for another kiss?”

It’s 16:52. Shit.

Monty’s hand slides up to my neck, but I stop him before he can kiss me again and I forget about the concept of time.

“It’s nearly five. You should go before the neighbours see you.”

I fear he will protest, or say I am ruining things, but he nods and squeezes my hand.

“So this _is_ a top secret rendez vous.”

I drop my head on his shoulder laughing and press another kiss to his jaw.

“Then as your top secret paramour, I will make sure no one finds a trace of me.”

We walk downstairs with our arms around each other, neither willing to let go just yet.

“You never told me you were gay,” he says.

“What?”

“You never told me you were into guys, please don’t tell me you’re not.” He pouts, as if I would confess I am straight while we are standing in my house with our arms around each other.

“Wha- No! I am. You never said you were…”

“Bi.”

“Bi either.”

“I knew for almost a hundred percent, but it is nice to hear you say it.”

I cock my head. “You made guesses? Based on what?”

“I’ve never seen anyone try so hard to hide their lovely blush.” His knuckles brush my cheek and I know I turn red again. “And Jeanne said you didn’t stare once.”

I snort. I wanted to be polite, I didn’t expect that to be an argument for my lack of heterosexuality, but the fact that Monty thought about me, and _talked_ about me makes me blush even harder.

“So I will see you for our next top secret rendez-vous?” Monty presses a kiss to my hand and I suddenly understand why Sim stopped functioning when Jeanne did it to her. _Blonde menaces._

“I think so? No one can know as long as your father-”

He cuts me off with a rough kiss. “Perce, I don’t care about that. I quite like being your secret paramour.”

“Monty-”

“What is it darling?”

“You really need to go. An Audi leaving this street will draw attention and soon the neighbours will get back from work.”

He kisses me one last time before opening the door.

Sim knows something happened before I say anything.

“You ran away from two non-dates in a row and still got a third. Tell me your secrets.”

“Oh please,” I scoff, “It was secret and no one saw us.”

“So it DID happen!” Sim holds up her hand for a high five.

As I return the high five I can’t help but feel proud. Monty _kissed_ me. _Me! And I did not sleep with him on the first date!_

“So. Uhm, work.”

She grins. “Yes. Work.” 

We return to the house to have another look at Felicity’s room. Ms Montague is a minimalist.

The walls are light gray and stationary is stacked on top of the old furniture. Her closet contains only plain v neck t shirts, cardigans and various pairs of jeans. Even her two picture frames (one of her and Johanna, the other of Johanna’s dog) have a simple steel frame.

We check every book, but find only notes with medical terms and post its with to-do lists.

“Well organised. I like it,” Sim says, “not very useful though.”

I nod, putting back the picture of the dog. “She does not have a driver's license and wasn’t on any bus or taxi that night. Johanna Hoffman has no motive. For now I think Sinjon and the Peeles are likelier suspects.”

Sim agrees. The Peele’s still refuse to let us check their detailed records, but money and blackmail are often reasons for murder.

We make our way back outside when Elle stops us, holding a sleeping Adrian in her arms.

“Sorry, detectives, I do not know if it is important, but I did see Lady Montague go downstairs once that night.”

I smile at her. “Anything can be useful, if only to exclude people. When did you see her?”

“Just after midnight. I asked if the clock had woken her up.”

I write it down on my notepad as Elle continues.

“She just went to the bathroom downstairs. I am not sure why she prefers that one, but she always uses it.”

“Is there something wrong with the one here?” Sim opens the door to the bathroom on the first floor, but it is a perfectly normal bathroom.

“Not that I know of,” she offers an apologetic smile, “but it’s next to the linen closet. If a towel falls in there it echoes through the bathroom as well. Adrian doesn’t like the linen closet because of it.”

We nod, remembering how we thought the attic of the Elefftheria was haunted when it was just Yardstick up there.

“Could she have left the house?” I ask. Before twelve is too early according to the pathologist, but I want to be sure.

Elle takes us downstairs to the laundry room, where there’s a back door. “Sinclair was at the front door all night until mr Montague returned, and no one ever uses this one.”

The back door opens with a screech. Sim and I both cover our ears and Elle shushes Adrian. From where Sinclair sat, he would have heard that door opening even through the storm of that night.

“And the windows?” Sim asks.

Elle does not look up, still making cooing noises. “This house is old, detective, the windows are rusted and Lord Montague had all of them sealed a while ago. We have a climate control system built into the walls.”

Both Sim and I perk up, the pain in our ears immediately subsided.

“What do you mean, none of the windows open?” She asks, “Isn’t that dangerous?”

Elle strokes Adrian’s head as she leads us back to the front door. “Well, yes. It can be dangerous, especially in rooms without doors, but it is not truly dangerous. Asphyxiation is not possible.”

I look at Sim.

_‘Yikes?’_

_‘Absolutely. Yikes.’_

“Why did Lord Montague install this?”

Elle shrugs. “He was worried about people sneaking through the windows.”

~

**MONTY, THE NEXT DAY**

That stupid song was right. I hear violins whenever I think about Percy kissing me in that gazebo, which is more than often. 

Jeanne sits up and snaps her fingers in front of my eyes. “Hey, earth to Monty?”

“Okay okay. Sorry. What did you say?”

“I said net-a-porter sold out on that Versace top. You know, the black one with the straps and gold buckles. Now what’s on your mind?”

“Percy Newton. The detective.”

“You’re excused, I’ve seen detective Newton and he’s hot enough.”

She pours us another glass of champagne. 

“Cheers. Here’s to two detectives we didn’t get to shag.”

I take the champagne. This is the moment I brag about my excellent seduction skills, but the arrogance doesn’t bubble up.

“Yeah. So. About that.” I sound like a damn robot reciting text from google translate. “We… kind of kissed.”

“You- You what!?”

She takes the champagne back so roughly that it spills on the scarves laying on the floor.

“Monty I am so sorry, you are not just excused, you have an extremely good reason to zone out. Now spill the tea. Was it good? Was he into it? Was it hot?” She slurps from her glass.

_It was bloody fantastic._

“It was very chaste.”

_It got my blood racing more than any trick Sinjon was ever up for._

“Fun though.”

_God, I felt like a fifteen year old stealing a kiss behind a locker door._

“We went to his house. We can’t be seen together because he’s still on about the shitheads death.”

“His house huh? Did you make it to the bed at least?”

I blink, wondering if I should tell her his pillows had a small gold embroidery on the sides, like her sold out Versace? “I sat there?”

Jeanne hits me on the head like I am a child. “Excuse me? You were on his bed and you didn’t make a move?”

Oh right. Of course. That.

“I… forgot?”

I hadn’t thought about that when I suggested we dance, wanting to hear him play first, and I realise I’m not even disappointed. I can’t remember the last time I failed to get into someone’s bed, and yet, kissing Percy goodbye after that dumb song felt a million times better than leaving any one or two night stand.

“He was playing the violin?” I try, which is a weak excuse.

Jeane raises a sardonical eyebrow.

“You did not pull him under the sheets because he was _playing the violin_? What was it?”

“Jason Derulo?”

She sets the champagne aside and pins me down on the settee. 

I want to protest, but she holds both my wrists before I get a chance.

“Oooh, it ended like this, didn’t it? _First class seat on my lap, boy, riding comfortable. Been around the world don’t speak the language, Your music don’t need explaining, all I need to understand is when you-”_

She leans in closer with every word until her hair tickles the sides of my face and I can see a mark from her latest conquest on her neck.

“Piss off. It wasn’t like that,” I huff.

Jeanne laughs, “Monty Montague, are you catching _feelings_?”

“Ew, feelings,” I roll my eyes.

She pulls my hair.

“Ugh,” I groan, “yes.”

She finally lets go of my wrists and I wriggle out from underneath her.

“I knew it. You’ve been dreaming about him. I heard you say his name in your sleep.”

“Liar,” I say far too confidently, for the last time I fell asleep on this settee Jeanne was still awake.

“Ok fine. I made that up.”

I shove some of the clothes on the floor out of the way to get my glass back. I think about my kiss with Percy and once again I hear his violin song.

“Jeanne,” I say, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What is your family like?” The words are out before I know it.

“My family?”

I nod. Jeanne has a whole life I never hear about. Our lives only brush when our lips or our credit cards do.

“I have a brother and a sister? They live close by.”

“Could you tell me about them?”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

She takes her phone and shows me the picture on her lockscreen.

“That’s Natalie, my older sister.” Jeanne does not comment on the wheelchair so neither do I. “That’s Aidan. He’s fourteen and a menace.”

“Fourteen is the most vicious age,” I say. She agrees wholeheartedly.

“And our mom.”

“What about your dad?” I ask before considering she might dislike him as much as I do mine.

“We all have a different one. Mine was a shithead who bailed when mom found out about me. Aidan’s one of her customers I think.”

Jeanne says it with the same casualty she mentions a broken fingernail, or a new pair of shoes.

“Are they... ok?” I manage to choke out.

This is why I never have conversations like these. I am astoundingly bad at them.

“Oh they are doing great! The perks of a marriage I suppose.”

It is the first time I see her smile at the mention of her late husband.

“Money can’t buy happiness, _my ass._ It can buy them healthcare and tuition. Aidan says he wants to be a programmer. He already hacks online games to cheat.”

I say nothing so she brings up another story about her family. “I took Natalie to Louis Vuitton in London and the bitch working there was so condescending, I got her fired.”

I laugh, but I hear how shallow I sound.

I think of Percy’s mom, who worked day and night to provide for him. Jeanne’s mom, who survived by the grace of the type of unsavory men I am lucky to have encountered only a few times. And I think of mine, who never lifted a finger for me, who closed her bedroom door so she would not hear me cry myself to sleep. The only time I have ever known her to raise her voice was when he hit the goblin’s fingers with a ruler.

Jeanne crosses her arms and sits back, both of us uncomfortable with the silence. “Is this what you wanted to know? My rags to riches story?”

No. I do not know why I asked. Because I like Jeanne? Not merely in the physical way, but not in the way I like Percy either? For all our flirting, I cannot remember the last time we had sex. Jeanne and I go years back, since we met at her wedding reception. Clandestine hookups with the young wife of one of my fathers business associates out of spite turned into evenings drinking champagne to compare our conquests and day trips strutting through London with our arms linked, buying the most ridiculous designer clothes we could find.

I pull her into a hug. Another a dumb thing I am astoundingly bad at, but she wraps her arms around me and we stay like that for a long while.

“I’m glad you told me,” I say, and it occurs to me Jeanne is the closest thing I have to a real friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a pain.  
> Please leave a comment :)


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